


The Room Where It Happens

by destinae



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Where PWP means Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinae/pseuds/destinae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A five-part lyric fic of sorts about Alexander Hamilton's skills of persuasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Thomas Claims, “Alexander was on Washington’s doorstep one day in distress and disarray.”_

 

    It was in the fall. Or maybe it wasn’t. The memory of the affair, as well as what would follow, would always sit foggily in Alexander’s mind. He had asked Washington for guidance. Of course he had. While Alexander had never known his father, he’s always know a father in Washington. The man was level-headed and resilient, patient and intelligent and essentially the perfect version of Alexander himself. On this particular occasion, Alexander had already been somewhat tipsy when he arrived at Mount Vernon.

 

    It wasn’t often that Alexander would pay Washington a personal visit. He was on vacation, enjoying time alone with his wife, when Alexander arrived. The sun was still in the sky, casting heavy shadows and throwing the trees’ shapes onto the road. They made Alexander feel so small. The first to the door was a slave, a lean black boy who spoke no English, but seemed to understand who Alexander was because of the way he disappeared down the hallway, oak door still wide open, and then emerged with Washington trailing shortly behind him. The man was quick to dismiss the slave, and asked Alexander patiently to explain why he had come to Mount Vernon without any notice.

 

    The capital. The banks.

 

    Washington showed an atypical lack of empathy. He dismissed Alexander, explaining that if he were to ever be as famous as he dreamt, he would have to figure things out on his own. While Alexander had always been independent, this was a new level. He needed to make decisions that would change the United States, and maybe even the world. Without Washington, the next choice was obvious.

 

    Jefferson.

 

    Just the thought drove Alexander to drink, stopping at a tavern the night he arrived back in town. While Samuel Adam’s brewery’s success was still debatable, the quality and price of their beer wasn’t. Before Alexander knew what he was doing, he had downed three pints and was complaining to Laurens. How had Laurens found him? How had Laurens even known Hamilton had arrived back in town already? Maybe the universe had tipped him off. Alexander was already too drunk to care.

 

    After taking about half an hour to explain to Laurens his predicament, Alexander had somehow ingested another half-pint while his friend explained what he had to do. He had to talk to someone else, someone who he’d never seen eye-to-eye with.

 

    Jefferson.

 

    Maybe it sounded like a better idea when he was shitfaced-- even after the fact, Hamilton would never understand how Laurens had managed to make speaking with Jefferson sound like a good idea. Besides, he wasn’t too far from the tavern. At least, not if he was supposed to be. After paying his tab, Hamilton exited (via drunken stumble) the tavern and paid off a carriage to take him to the only place he knew Jefferson to be.

 

    Monticello.

 

    It had been a long day. Alexander was tired and drunk and a little nauseous from the rocky way to Jefferson’s house, so when Jefferson answered the door, he considered simply surrendering everything to make the entire process easier.

    Instead, he made the monumental mistake of opening his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where things get gay.
> 
> This chapter is the only reason for the non-con warning. Because the two end up getting drunk and, of course, doing stupid things, their actions are unfortunately not entirely consensual. 
> 
> Non-con will not be recurring.

_Thomas claims, “Alexander said, ‘I have nowhere else to turn!’, and basically begged me to join the fray.”_

 

    I need your help.

 

    The words sounded more organized, more separate in Alexander’s head. When he spoke them, they stumbled through his lips and thick tongue, spilling on the floor in front of him and inviting him to take a nap on the front steps of Jefferson’s house. Maybe he would, if there weren’t such important topics at hand. No, instead he stood up straight, swaying slightly, hoping his intoxication wasn’t too evident.

 

    I have no-one else to talk to. I have nowhere else to turn.

 

    Jefferson’s mirth at Alexander’s anguish was almost comical. He readily invited Hamilton in, shutting the door behind him and inviting the poor drunk fool into his foyer. Or maybe it was his living room. Once again, memory was blurred by the bready flavor that coated all of Alexander’s words.

 

    When Alexander explained that Washington had turned him away, Jefferson’s enthusiasm was somewhat curbed. Maybe it had been wrong to mention that Jefferson had been his last resort, but Alexander was surprised that Thomas had even for a moment considered himself to be even remotely close to Alexander’s list of people to discuss politics with. Regardless, Alexander managed to express an interest in having a meeting, and Jefferson expressed his interest in pouring himself a drink.

 

    So they drink and exchanged words. Maybe the exchange was made easier for Alexander by his pre-existing drunkenness, but Jefferson seemed suddenly much more pliable after a few drinks himself.

 

    It would happen over dinner. The duo and a few other politicians would sit down and decide where they would eat while they ate. It was a good idea, they were sure. Once they’d decided when the debate would take place, their conversation ventured elsewhere. Maybe it was because they’d found an oddly enjoyable company because of the circumstances, or maybe it was because neither Jefferson nor Hamilton desired to be drunk alone. Regardless, they spoke for some time until the sun dipped below the horizon, topics ranging from plants to fashion to the Constitution, and at one particularly heated point, slavery.

 

    Alexander was supposed to leave after the conversation ended, but it was dark and raining and he was far too drunk to make it back into town and find an Inn to rest at. So Jefferson offered him somewhere to stay. That was the next in the long list of mistakes made that day. What happened next went as follows, verbatim.

  


             “Alexander, it’d be improper of me as a host to allow you to leave in such a state.”

 

             Alexander’s hand grasped the handle of the front door to Monticello, body facing Jefferson, who held a nearly-empty whisky glass. “The weather is hardly hostile, Thomas. I should make it into town without trouble.”

 

             “The weather isn’t my concern. Alexander, let me offer you somewhere to rest.” This was accompanied with a hand on Alexander’s arm, just above the crook of his elbow, tugging gently.

 

             And between the two of them, a silent conversation occurred, and Alexander replied,

 

             “I will not rest until this country has the capital it deserves.” And yet he gave in to the motion, stumbling drunkenly towards Jefferson, whose hand moved from Alexander’s arm to his shoulder, and then to his chest, barely holding the shorter man from simply collapsing onto the marble.

 

    Predictably, Alexander couldn’t make it to the guest room without some assistance. Jefferson’s uncharacteristic patience meant that he was the one assisting Hamilton all the way to the room, until the two were outside, face-to-face, breathing each others’ drunken air and swaying gently. Then, with the kind of decisive security that only a drunken, tired, nervous founding father could manage, he kissed Thomas Jefferson.

 

    It was sloppy and tired, grabby and wet and so not romantic that it was all they could do to not shove each other to the floor. The kiss ended, resulting in many moments of heavy, silent breathing. And they kissed again.

 

    Within moments, Alexander was pressed against the door, arms wrapped awkwardly around Jefferson, whose hands were busied with cupping the much shorter, much drunker Secretary of the Treasury.

 

    When Alexander finally pulled away, the silence was much louder than before. They finally parted ways without so much as a word spoken, Alexander closing the door with a near slam and collapsing into a gorgeous bed without so much as taking off his shoes.

 

* * *

 

    The next morning, Alexander was surprised to find that the most painful memory of the night previous had surprisingly little to do with having to beg Jefferson to discuss some sort of compromise with him, and more to do with the heated kissing that the two had stumbled into-- literally. He rose from bed, straightening his jacket and hoping that he was the only one of them who would remember the kiss.

 

    To his great chagrin, he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're underwhelmed, don't worry. It gets gayer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where things get gayer and handsier.

_Thomas Claims: “I approached Madison and said, ‘I know you hate him but let’s see what he has to say.”_

 

    Jefferson left his house early the next morning. Unlike Hamilton, he hadn’t drunk very heavily. A hangover was absent, but the memory of kissing the other man seemed to plague him. Of course, the kiss had meant nothing. It couldn’t. Not because their love was forbidden, or because it was unnatural, but because they simply weren’t lovers. They weren’t soulmates. They were politicians, two men with very different values and very similar sexualities, letting off some steam. Thus, he could justify the action.

 

    Maybe it was in his stoic nature. Maybe it was something greater. Maybe it was because in a great universal balance, somewhere a million miles off, Hamilton was talking to Laurens, begging his confidante for some advice better than to forget about it and have the goddamn meeting, like a normal person. And yet he couldn’t. Something bothered Hamilton, that Jefferson had so easily returned the motion despite his relative sobriety. That he hadn’t asked for more than the kisses when Hamilton had protested. There was something strangely gentlemanly about Jefferson’s actions the previous night, and Hamilton wasn’t about to let it go.

 

    He had considered, just for a moment, telling Washington. However, something about running off to Washington about his makeout session with a man he had previously loathed (and, to most degrees, still loathed) just reeked of being a bad idea. All Hamilton could do was sit impatiently, waiting and waiting and waiting for Jefferson to win Madison over for the meeting.

 

    Then again, if Thomas had been at all offended by Alexander’s drunken escapades, he could easily change his mind about the idea and leave Alexander high and dry without a capital and without any hope. He spent most of the rest of the day pacing the streets, chatting idly with a few acquaintances and completely failing to pass the time any faster

 

    As the two had coordinated before the regrettable events of the night previous, Alexander met Jefferson at a small café, sitting down with a croissant neither of them intended to touch and discussing the details.

 

    Jefferson had gotten Madison in on it. They were going to do this.

 

   

                                    “Thank you.”

           

                                    A shrug. “Alexander, your resilience through all of this is admirable, but I’m not entirely sure whether you’re able to shoulder the responsibility of this meeting.”

           

                                    With a slight frown, Hamilton leaned back in his chair. “If my memory serves me well, you agreed to this. You must have some faith in me.”

          

                                   “I have faith in your methods, Alexander. Not in your madness.”

           

                                    “And yet you aid me in my time of need. Should I get on my knees and thank you?”

           

                                    Jefferson smirked. “You’ve always been too willing to fall to your knees, haven’t you?”

 

           

The familiar silence between them returned, the one with such heavy implications, with a terrible truth both of them acknowledged but didn’t utter. The innuendo was glaring and obscene, but Alexander knew that subtleties Jefferson was capable of, he knew the intention of the statement.

 

* * *

 

They barely made it to an Inn. When they did, they were all over one another, fingers in hair and tugging at jackets and pulling one another infinitely closer, constantly closer, responding to some craving that neither of them could understand. The kisses were greedy things, nipping and sucking and everywhere that bare skin permitted. They lay on the bed, Alexander underneath Thomas, bodies pressed together, and ignoring anything beyond their own flesh and desire.

 

* * *

 

By the time they were finished, the duo was shirtless, sprawled out on a too-small bed, Alexander on top Thomas, lips placing lazy kisses on the other man’s jaw, a thousand thank you’s for a chance he imagined he wouldn’t have been given otherwise. They didn’t talk for some time, and not because they didn’t have to. They didn’t talk because there was nothing left to be said. For once, their bodies had done the talking, Alexander’s thin frame seeming to almost belong on Jefferson’s much larger, but considerably less brawny, chest.

 

                       “Alexander--”

                       “Thomas, there are few things in life as sacred as silences like these. Please, a few more minutes.”

    

     And so they lay together.

 

     And then they didn’t.

 

     Too different (or maybe too proud) for sex, they got dressed and abandoned the Inn together, parting ways as soon as they exited the building.

 

    That evening, Alexander slept well. He knew nothing of what would come next.

   

    He knew nothing of how the parties get to yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek! I know I got a bit sheepish with the makeout sesh between the two of 'em, but I'm kind of leaving sex to the side until I get to the Big Thing that will Happen later on. Trust me, there will be porn, and it will be wonderful, but as of right now, it isn't the focus.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamilton and Jefferson make the most of some down-time.
> 
> Just for reference, a chaise is the "therapist chair" that's like a low sofa with one raised side.

_ Thomas Claims, “Well, I arranged the meeting. I arranged the menu, the venue, the seating.” _

 

By this point, Alexander had learned that being a politician required a great many talents, many of which he’d never imagined using on anyone but his wife. Or maybe Laurens, on the occasion that the two of them were sufficiently drunk, reasonably bored, and adequately sex-starved. Maybe kissing Jefferson had been his first mistake. Maybe it hadn’t been a mistake at all. After all, Jefferson had never been as pliable before. He was doing practically all the work for Hamilton. The last time Alexander had checked with him (and the encounter had resulted in some rather desperate grabbing and kissing and embracing and such in the back of the restaurant they’d rendezvous in), Thomas had already pinned down a date and location for the meeting, and was simply struggling to decide whether seafood or steak was the best option.

 

Alexander had advised seafood, as any bastard orphan from the Caribbean would, but he had no idea as to whether Jefferson had agreed with the idea or not. Regardless, the next few days passed in a cloud of nerves, excitement, and preparation. Alexander sat down with Eliza, telling her of what he’d been talking to Jefferson about-- and of course omitting the fact that he and the other man had been intimate on nearly every occasion that they had encountered one another, the meeting had ended with kissing and some level of nakedness.

 

Rather, he explained to her his plan to surrender the location of the capital, but keep the banks centered in New York. Granted, the treasury itself would be found in DC, but as long as Wall Street was under his influence in New York, Alexander controlled government. Sure, elitist theory was tired and extremist, but he couldn’t help his intuition. Besides, Eliza agreed. Then again, she always did. She was like that, very agreeable with an unexpected wit and spine that made her unbelievably attractive, especially to someone like Alexander. 

 

 

* * *

Before he knew it, the day of the meeting had arrived. The invitation had arrived well in advance, gorgeously scrawled letters detailing a dinner party at Monticello, at which Jefferson, Madison, and Hamilton would sit down and sort out the problems that plagued the government and Alexander’s conscience. Of course, Alexander arrived several hours early, finding himself back where he had been at the beginning of the issue: midday on the front steps of Jefferson’s plantation, nervous and afraid, aching for a change.

 

Jefferson answered the door personally, readily welcoming Alexander into his estate. The door closed with a click. It was the beginning of the end of their struggles. For some time, the two of them sat, chatting, words lubricated without need of any alcohol. For some time they spoke about politics, civil debate taking place as to the truly reasonable location of the capitol, until the conversation wasn’t about the capitol anymore, and they sat close to each other on the chaise, Thomas’s hand resting on Alexander’s inner thigh, their faces close, lost in each others’ eyes and policies and thoughts. 

 

“Thomas, your callous disregard for the needs of the country as a whole never ceases to amaze me.”

“What you seem to forget,” Jefferson replied, hand sliding minutely further up Alexander’s thigh, “Is that by placing the capitol in Virginia, we will have a central power, in the most literal respect.”

Alexander chuckled. “The capitol has no place in Virginia. New York is the center of civilization, and so the capital should belong at the heart of our young country.”

“And when it grows?” Thomas retorted, “What will we do when we are more than 13 united colonies? Will the capitol be in a constantly transitory state? What does that say about our government, Alexander?”

“That it is dynamic, that we are ready for change at any instant. You’re too stubborn, my friend.” Hamilton replied, a hint of amusement in his tone despite the serious subject matter at hand.

“And you are far too flippant.”

 

At this point, neither of them were surprised that they were kissing again. Alexander tugged Thomas closer, gripping his lapels, until the two of them fell back onto the chaise, Jefferson bracing himself on his elbows. For a moment, they lay like that in silence, breathing heavily, Jefferson straddling Hamilton. 

 

And then Alexander kissed Jefferson again. And again. And again and again. Alexander tangled his fingers in Thomas’s hair, his other hand abandoning the arduous task of unbuttoning the other man’s waistcoat and instead frantically tugging at Thomas’s breeches, some low whine emitting from his lips, which was quickly silenced as Jefferson moved from Alexander’s lips to his jaw, peppering his skin with kisses, nipping and sucking at his neck as he helped Alexander remove his breeches. 

 

“Alexander-”

“Thomas Jefferson, I will depart you right now if you continue to sabotage these magnificent silences"  


“Very well.”

 

Maybe Jefferson’s brevity was inspired by Alexander’s threat, or maybe by the man’s hand on Thomas’s crotch, palming gently at Thomas’s growing erection. 

 

Suddenly, the room was very warm. Jefferson’s hips rolled gently into Alexander’s palm, lips working something Alexander referred to as magic if he hadn’t been so vaguely religious. Hickeys bloomed on the Secretary’s neck as he stopped groping at Jefferson’s crotch just long enough to reach into his loosened breach and wrap a confident hand around the older man’s cock. Jefferson’s lips paused, breath warm on Alexander’s exposed neck. 

 

Then, Alexander gave Jefferson’s cock a gentle pump and the softest, most delicate whimper escaped the older man’s lips. Alexander grinned, and Thomas’s eyes met his.

And then their lips met.

 

The stroking became almost rhythmic, their kissing evolving into something more lustful and erotic than before. And then, without prompt, Alexander stopped, gently attempting to push Jefferson off of him. The man made a sound akin to that of protest, pressing against Alexander’s hand wordlessly.

 

 

“Come now, Thomas. You deserve a more dignified climax than this.”

 

The double entendre of Alexander’s words were not missed, but Jefferson complied, allowing Alexander to push him. Their position shifted, Alexander on top, head at Jefferson’s hips, one hand wrapped around Jefferson’s cock, the other slowly unbuttoning the his man’s waistcoat. At this point, Jefferson’s head had fallen back, the fingers of one hand threaded in Alexander’s loose ponytail, the other aiding in the frantic unbuttoning of his own waistcoat.

 

Alexander made no ceremony of licking a confident stripe from base to tip of Jefferson’s cock, eliciting a loud and honestly lewd moan from the other man. Then again, if that moan had been anything to write home about, the sound he made when alexander took the entirety of Jefferson’s length into his mouth was nothing short of sinful.

 

Jefferson’s waistcoat was completely unbuttoned by now, and so Alexander focused on using both hands to stroke Jefferson’s cock. The young secretary’s head bobbed rhythmically up and down Jefferson’s cock, and Jefferson’s previously very audible sounds lapsed into incomprehensible gasping and groaning

Alexander could handle that. Alexander could handle the way that Jefferson tugged at his hair, urging him wordlessly to move faster, suck harder, and Jefferson’s entire body shivering as Hamilton gently run one hand under Jefferson’s thin shirt, tracing his stomach and chest, drawing invisible shapes with his fingertips. They were all ethereal things, stars and wings and ships out of a fantasy.

 

 

* * *

 

When Jefferson climaxed, Alexander looked up just in time to meet the gaze of the other man, who bit his lip, entire body going limp. Alexander sat up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and absently hoping that whatever they had for dinner would taste strong enough to get the salty flavor out of his mouth. For the moment, he reclined, resting against the raised back of the chaise, panting, legs spread, one foot up against Jefferson’s inner thigh. And it was a strange kind of peace.

 

He knew that either of them speaking again would absolutely ruin the atmosphere.

 

Jefferson finally sat up, re-dressing himself (or at least fixing his pants, as he got about two buttons into fixing his waistcoat and abandoned the issue entirely) and grabbed Hamilton by the lapels, proceeding to kiss him violently. He seemed not to mind the taste as much as Hamilton did.

 

Thomas rubbed his palm against Alexander’s crotch, as if to return the favor, and the action was swiftly halted by a knocking at the door to the room. The two stared at one another in silence, and then Jefferson scrambled frantically to his feet. He expertly buttoned his waistcoat, tugging at his breeches and adjusting himself. Thomas passed a mirror on his way to the door, pausing to look at his reflection and adjust his hair.

 

He stopped at the door, turned to glance at Hamilton for a long moment, and exited.

 

Alexander ended up dealing with his arousal himself, finishing within a few minutes and collecting himself in less.

 

The next time he saw Thomas Jefferson, the two sat across the table from one another, with James Madison between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy. This is the longest chapter yet, and I was very nervous and posting any smut here. 
> 
> Anyway, things might get a bit feelsy next chapter, depending on where I go with this. 
> 
> I'm a bit angry with myself because I'd promised myself I wouldn't revise anything I wrote for this fic, since it was supposed to be an idea dump more than anything. However, I ended up reading over and changing the sex scene several times to make it just right. Whatever. I like to think it was worth it.
> 
> Of course, kudos and comments are much appreciated! Thanks to everyone whose already bookmarked or kudo'd this piece, I'm very flattered that you enjoyed it so much.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ending of this great adventure. Notes and thanks at the end.

_But! No one else was in the room where it happened._

 

Despite all that was spoken during the historical Dinner Table Bargain, very little was actually said. Words ebbed and flowed between the trio, casual discourse escalating to heated debate and eventually simmering back to cool conversation.

 

Within three hours, the agreement was met. The capitol was placed, the banks established, and everyone left the table that night pleased with what had come out of the entire affair.

 

    That is, the affair of the Dinner Table Bargain.

 

    While Jefferson had been very relaxed-- blissful, almost-- after Alexander had given him what had to be the most scandalous blowjob of the decade, this wasn’t to say that guilt had entirely evaded the conscience of the young Alexander Hamilton. Although the blowjob hadn’t exactly been a strategic decision on Hamilton’s side, he was pleased to find that his sexual favors had earned him some personal favor in Thomas’s book. A great tension sat between the two politicians persisted even as Madison left. The elderly man had cited the inclement weather as a reason to part ways well before they were supposed to, but Alexander’s intuition told him that James simply had no further desire to do with him.

    He couldn’t complain, though. Time alone with Jefferson might not have been ideal after he’d essentially fucked the other man into submission and tricked him into giving up far more than was fair, but Alexander didn’t quite feel like leaving yet, not without a few final words. The two of them stepped out onto the front porch of Monticello after Madison had left, watching the sunset in silence. In the moon’s glow, the great grass field in front of it seemed to stretch on forever in the evening light, and Alexander felt a great urge to slip off his coat and simply run into it, to run forever. To run until he collapsed.

  


            “Alexander,” Jefferson said, addressing him in a personal manner that might have been unusual just a week previous, “I implore you to spend the night with me.”

   

 

    And God, how Alexander wanted to. Not because he particularly enjoyed Jefferson’s presence or estate (the slaves made the atmosphere very hard to stomach, honestly), but because he didn’t like anywhere else, either. Hamilton knew Eliza would be waiting for him at home with open arms and a glass of something strong to dull the nerves of the monumental decisions that had been made, but it was nothing to him. It seemed so far away, so distant, so minute compared to the endless green of Monticello’s lawn. Alexander opened his mouth to speak, which was always his greatest mistake.

  


            “Why do you think I am slave to you, Thomas?” He asked, hands tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat, gaze thrown over the trees on the horizon. “This is not slavery between us, in fact, I never had anything more than an indentured servitude to you. In exchange for your assistance in my journey to the ends I desired, I served you. Perhaps it was old-fashioned of me to believe that you would understand the precedent of the encounters we both took part in. Perhaps it was ambitious of you to believe that my advances were ever anything more than a strictly professional expression of appreciation.”

 

 

    By this time, Jefferson’s expression was as dark as the evening sky. Alexander could not bring himself to look the other man in the eyes.

  


            “I do not love you, Alexander.” Thomas said with a tone of finality. “My desire for you was always a desire of the flesh, a hunger for satisfaction that couldn’t find anywhere but in your arms and lips. I do not care about the pretenses under which you ravish me, but simply desire that I be ravished all the same.”

  


    Hamilton finally brought himself to look upon Thomas’s countenance, and immediately regretted the decision. The older man looked morose, almost desperate to some degree, his very energy reaching out for Alexander, yearning for what it had once, but would never have again.

  


            “You’re as deaf as you are blind. Jefferson, I will not return to bed with you. Not now, not ever again. In fact, if I were never to make physical contact with you again, I would be perfectly contented.” The cutting words made even Alexander feel a twinge of guilt, but he persisted. “Your politics are dumb, your words are blind, and your foresight is absolutely tone deaf. I will leave soon, and will not return to Monticello ever again. We may meet again in the beautiful halls of our new Gehenna, the District of Columbia, but I do not wish to encounter your gentle words, or your fervent embraces, or your lips on mine. I have repaid you for your generosity. I am not indebted to your desire.”

  


    Now, Jefferson looked visibly wounded. Alexander knew his own tendency for brutality in his words and volatility in his tone, and while he was often too prideful to be guilty, the sudden sharpness in his gut was unprecedented. Alexander had to step away from Jefferson, towards the forever of the great grass plains, for the feeling to lessen.

  


            “Why do you hurt me, Alexander?” Thomas asked, a hand reaching for Alexander. “I do not desire to desire, or to be desired. Does not my touch create something within you? Does it not say something my lips never could, even when pressed against yours?”

  


He took Hamilton’s hand. Alexander quickly withdrew from Jefferson’s touch, but did not move any further.

  


        “We are bitter foes, Thomas Jefferson. We always will be. From the day we were born, we were set to be rivals. Crossed by the stars, maybe. Betrayed by the fates, cursed by the heavens. Nevertheless, this is the path that the supreme powers have set for us, and so I must follow it. I do not love you, Thomas Jefferson. I do not desire your touch any more than I desire that of your wife. To be wanted by you is an insult, to want you, blasphemy. I shall return home to Eliza, and I shall place this behind me. You will do the same, returning to bed with the woman who you had vowed to love singularly. This is how we live, Thomas. This is how it must be. If ever I felt a shred of admiration or affection for you, if ever I held the most sheepish flame for you, consider it entirely extinguished. I detest you now, and shall detest you until my dying day. This will not change what I have done with and for you, or what few and beautiful words we had for each other in these encounters. I do not desire to rewrite history, simply to avoid repeating it. Goodnight, my good friend and great enemy.”

 

* * *

 

That night, they lie in separate beds, besides themselves, the great forever of Monticello’s plains like a terrible abyss between the two of them. As Alexander promised, he never lay a hand on Thomas again, and debated against him routinely in the halls of the Capitol. Even after the affair of the Reynolds Pamphlet, Jefferson never stepped forward with the details of how he agreed to the decisions made in the Dinner Table Bargain. Whether it was out of love or fear of the public’s reaction, Alexander would never know. What he did know, without a doubt, was how he got Jefferson on his side for two short weeks and how, again and again and again, Jefferson said yes.

 

Even the final time, when he wanted more than anything to say no.

 

_No one really knows how the parties get to yes, the pieces that are sacrificed in every game of chess._

_We just assume that it happens._

_But no one else is in the room where it happens._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've ever seen a multi-chapter fic through from beginning to end. While it has been short, I've been very touched and flattered by the support I've gotten while writing this. 
> 
> Finishing up was a pretty big challenge that seemed insurmountable at first, but my desire to share the ending I had in mind with you was far greater than my desire to give up. 
> 
> I am a bit tempted to write a few more fics in this style in the future, just because it was pretty fun to re-interpret the lyrics of the musical (and the history of the United States itself, honestly. credit it to a supressed god compex). AAAANYWAY. That's all, folks.
> 
> If you liked this, you may like my college au, You Great Unfinished Symphony. it's updated a bit less regularly, and chapters tend to be shorter than they were in this fic, but it might work for some people who are lazy readers. I dunno.
> 
> It was lit.


End file.
